


Twin Runner Mode

by Holly_H



Category: Blade Runner (1982), Depeche Mode, Depeche Mode (songs), Tubeway Army/Gary Numan (songs), Twin Peaks 1-3, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me
Genre: "Identity", BDSM, Crossover, F/M, Homage, Some death, Some romance (yep), Time Travel, scifi, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 04:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20500871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holly_H/pseuds/Holly_H
Summary: A FF of humans and non or demi-humans, and life and sex and death. What else is there?





	Twin Runner Mode

**Author's Note:**

> This is an homage/mixture of some my favorite musicians and their music, film/TV work, and subjects that I'm trying to sort out.  
If the real persons/creators of the works referenced see this, please know I am writing a tribute, and not claiming screenplays or lyrics as my own. Think of it as a low-brow T.S. Eliot poem. I also mean no disrespect or intrusion to the real persons referenced.

Demiel strode up to Club Blackout and felt his way into the foyer. Place was moderately packed, and he slipped further in, gradually found the bar--then stopped short. The tall temple of an auburn-haired Dom-Momma he knew she _had_ to be was at the semi-shadowed banquette. If he was lucky, she’d be something of a Switch too. He wasn’t above taking the reins occasionally.

Demiel looked for love in all the wrong places but was determined to find it. It’s not like he was going Home anytime this millennium. He was developing several new preferences, and replicants were one of many. He reckoned they were fallen angels, too.

JB glanced up every now and again, and the femme boi was in a different place in the bar, but ever closer to where she sat. When she smelled leather and lager, she glared up, thinking it was Deckard (a-fucking-gain), but it was the femme boi staring at her, hand on one harnessed hip. She started a bit, burgundy mouth bending a bemused, closed smile. She’d had a couple of glasses of wine, but they did not prepare her for his smile of shattered ivory. She swore he wandered in from the leather bar down the street. She also swore he was *just* legal drinking age, and that he’d had a few drinks in him already.

With sly deference, he intoned, “I admire your jumpsuit. Subtle sheen…May I join you?”

“Sure,” she quizzically agreed. Demiel set himself carefully beside her, and lounged back, elbow on the bench-back, gaze never leaving her face. JB picked up her wine, took a sip and asked if he’d like a drink. “Yes, please…”and he softly removed the stemware from her hand and sipped. JB tilted her head and supplied Demiel’s assumption. Hm, her pupils were blue, rather than red, though. Lightly licking his lips, he mouthed, “Lovely.”

“I meant one for yourself.”

“Mine’s a rum and coke. Thank you, ma’am.”

‘Ma’am?’ How old did he think *she* was? Drink delivered, he sipped through the straw, and twirled the cherry around with his other fingers, eyes back to her. Inching a bit closer, he leaned his face to her ear, “May I touch your gloves? They look sumptuous.” Amusement ever-growing, JB laid her forearm close to his on the beer dampened tabletop. His touch…light and trailing up to her inner arm; a painted fingertip slowly traced a few circles in the tiny bowl of her inner elbow. She harrumphed darkly, “Looking for loose wires? Sorry, pal, I’m sewn up pretty well.” Word’s got around about the sniper furlough, she saw. There were skin-job groupies, particularly for assassins. She’d tell this child to go home and fuck himself, she earned a drink or ten, but he was a bit too pretty to part with. She scrutinized him a bit more, then with a devious pucker of her lips, queried: “What do you want with me?”

“Well.” He whispered into her hair, with his free hand gently assessing her bicep. Her eyes widened. “That sounds…complicated. You have your own equipment?” She turned to face him.

“OH yes, ma’am.”

“You do know I’m a *woman* right?”

“Yes.” A raised eyebrow, a virtual purr: “Certainly looks like it to me.” His eyes took inventory of her neoprene-cased trinity of tits, thighs and ass—and the unmistakable triangle at her thighs’ junction. He spread that Cheshire grin again, and she started to…flow. Yeah. Let’s see about this. Some cunt worship would hit the spot.  
He continued, “I don’t wish to offend, but I…feel the potential. If it’s not for you, I apologize and wish you a good evening.”

“Not offended, just not expected,” JB offered. “Music’s good, wanna sway for a little bit?” JB saw the potential of his package in his crotch halter. Not so subliminal advertising.

Once on the dancefloor, Demiel rested his arms on JB’s shoulders, gently folded his hands around the back of her neck, hips forward, but not quite grinding. JB gazed down into the undertow of his eyes. JB stroked the studs of Demiel’s hip harness. Their mouths tentatively touched. Moving his mouth from hers, he perched on tiptoes, inquired, “What do you suppose being completely selfish would feeeeel liiike?”

“In what way?”  
“Pleasure. I…want you to be *selfish* with my body.” Demiel looks to JB carnally, imploringly.

JB considered this, behind half-closed eyes. This touch is sooo different from other touches in her catalog. Her head is dipping a bit, back and forth. Then she snapped it up straight.

She wrenched Demiel’s arms around to his front, gripped his wrists together. Up-close with clenched teeth to his face, she growled, “Deckard’s gotten *real* slick, now, huh, Messenger Boy? I gotta message you can relay…”

Demiel, sharply denied, with wide, damp eyes, “W-hho is Deckard?? You’re hurting me…”

“I get the distinct impression you ENJOY that, on his errands or your own!” JB snarled.

Demiel vaguely recalled the name now, spoken in low tones around the replicant council towers. She may not have much time. Sadness sliced through his heart.

“I just want to…f-uck…I’m not trying to harm you…”

“Fucking’s nice, sweet-cheeks, but it’s not my priority.”

“If I may-- please,” Demiel shakily looked down at his semi-swollen wrists, --please let me go!"

“Fine,” and JB did. She stared, and he stared back. She was a half-turn away from him, then he extended his uncanny voice to her retreating shoulder, “Please stay."

**************************************************************

JB arrived at her apartment. Undressing solemnly, she mentally shuffled through the evening’s events.

The nurse.

She had eyes like the alleged submissive.

‘_jezebel. things *must* change_.’

Even the stance was similar. Delicate and dignified.

_Fuck. Whatever._

JB laid down, let her limbs arrange themselves in fatigue. Her eyes closed.

Hours later she saw herself seated in an old-fashioned armchair, deep and lavish. JB looked down to her dress greys, insignia honorarium, spit-shone boots, and the zigzag pattern of the floor beneath them. Looking around, there were no walls, only rich red fabric. Bizarrely familiar.

From the right "side" of the “room,” an elegant, androgynous creature stepped toward the two empty armchairs to the left of JB’s. Except the sounds were more like scrape-woosh, rather than the expected clip-clack. And annoyingly slow, if not for the creature’s arresting ensemble: a high-slit dress, stockinged legs and red lips below, of all things, a cowboy hat.

The creature gracefully settled at the edge of their chair. Poised, it gazed at JB, a slow smile of recognition on its face.

**“B.J, olleH”**

JB regarded them suspiciously. She tried to speak but her words came haltingly. “What. is. your. name?”

Pleased, they replied, **“leimeD ma I.”**

Then silence, like a negative sonic chamber.

“I. want. to. leave. Where. is. the. exit?”

Languorously blinking like a cat, they rapidly slurred, **“ti tnaw uoy revenehW”**

“Don’t fuck with me man. Answer my question.” The words were a bit easier to pronounce now.

Indulgently, the figure rose and at a stop-start pace, moved toward JB, who despite her frustration was wonder struck; panting imperceptibly, tiny questioning smile pushing her lips apart. The figure now by her side, leaned to JB’s flushing, lifted cheek, and whispered in her ear.

JB’s eyes flew open and she jerked her head toward the window. Amber glow signaled daylight. She sighed at length and wove her way to the toilet.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

Fern sorted the recent Blue+ releases, lingering on Jezebel R.’s. This one…needed more time. 

“Just put it in the box,” Krantzen deadpanned.

“Subject was not fully reintegrated. Why are conversions released this soon?”

“New Tyrell Corp. directive. Hell if I know why. Probably budget cuts.”

“Tyrell is a monopoly on AI. There’s no competition to undersell.”

“Fern, I’m tellin’ ya, that’s all I know. If they break down or berzerk, we send in RetCon. We only deal with the paperwork after that.”

****************************************************************************************************************************************

Demiel uncurled himself from around the pillows, wishing they were the woman that forcibly rejected him the night before. He gravely reflected that many, many women, organic or otherwise, were so fearful of men. He was as good as The Word that he had yet to convince her was true; he wanted her in no harmful manner. Her beauty, her sense of command, aroused him in another layer of consciousness.

Squatting in empty penthouses had its advantages. Privacy, for one thing. He re-imagined what of her body he got to touch. Their proximity on the dance floor, in the half-light. Isn’t that the optimal growing conditions of desire? he mused. Her scent swirled in his memory.

He hoped her heart may yet melt, in tune with her vulva. Demiel crept his ready hands to his penis, threading his fingers up-down-all-around. Sleepy and flesh deprived, he lolled his head on the bolster, taking in the soft white sheets and poster canopies. Ah, yes: He recalled his loss of virginity fantasy. Would his body, his surrender, be good enough for her? Oh, yes: she could carry him over the threshold, lay him gently on the bed, and open his trousers. Brushing soft kisses upon the meridians of his face and body, she’d firmly and precisely stroke his stout, eager cock. He breathed aloud, forehead straining against the headboard, “*Love* me.”

Stroking and kissing him, she’d make him come, high and hard. His cries, prolonged and ever unchaste. To let it go between her fingers and his stomach, to give it up to his ruler, delighted and comforted him. Touching his face, she’d caress his flaxen curls. Just one caress.

Naturally, he would be shackled by his wrists and ankles the entire time. And then, it’d be Jezebel’s pleasure to straddle his face and ride. Cumming hot wetness all over his face. She’d feel it slipping into his busy lips lapping, licking and sucking. Joyful, urgent screams his only response.

“…and I’m BLE-E-SSSSSE…D…”

************************************************************************************************************************

Dora was nearly asleep after a sweltering day on the course. The replacement bows hadn’t arrived yet, her scapulars complained. The bedside phone chirped, needling her wearily awake. Her arm swam over to the receiver. A dully peeved “Hello?” greeted the caller.

“…Dora… _zzzthhhschkkkkk…zzzth….”_

The voice shook her fully awake, and out of the bed. Beyond the static, she _knew _that voice.

“Chet...” she swallowed dryly. “_Chester?”_

“Yes…it’s me...”

“…It’s really *you*?

“Yes, Dora. It’s really *me. *

Dora struggled for speech, but the sounds failed her. All the usual questions pressed forward but went unasked. The song Chet goofily crooned to her, as they took that walk the night before his last assignment, wafted to the fore. Dora groped for something akin to her bearings on the carpet.

“’I got ideas, maaaannn…’”

“Dora…WZZZZZZschriiiickkkk…waskkkkkkkkkEERSSSS AHHHHHHH!”

“CHESTER! WHAT’S…?!!!”

“Watch for that *one! *whiiiiiiiiiirclickclick* The *one* I told you about!”

The one he told her about?

“I gotta go… I LOVE YOU, DORA!!!”

“Chet, please, please don’t hang up…WHERE…”

“I’m a….grrrr..eeeeeeeeshCRAKKKKKKKKK… tur……”

Silence.

Dora stared, grief threshed anew, tears on the verge of her lashes. Her lids squeezed the rest out. In the night sky beyond her bedroom window, there were no stars.


End file.
